


Thesaurus Omnium Rerum E Custos

by Jaelijn



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Amnesia, Anterograde Amnesia, Community: watsons_woes, Gen, Holmes's POV, Hurt/Comfort, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, POV First Person, Post-Hiatus, Post-Story: The Adventure of the Empty House, Story: The Adventure of the Empty House, Story: The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-18
Updated: 2010-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:33:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26045050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaelijn/pseuds/Jaelijn
Summary: The attempt to save Watson from an accident has unforeseen consequences...
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Kudos: 7





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Archiving note:_ I am importing this fic to AO3 in August 2020 for archiving purposes. It has not been edited since its original publication in 2010. One of my then-favourites.
> 
> _Original A/N on LJ:_ Challenge 012 at watsons_woes . Holmes's POV; the case in this is mentioned in SOLI, as happening around the same time. Since SOLI is set in 1895, it is shortly after EMPT, but before SOLI. I checked for spelling, but unbeta'ed.

_Memory is the treasury and guardian of all things._

_Memoria est thesaurus omnium rerum e custos._

\- Cicero

* * *

In retrospect, I should have known from the first that such an injury could not go without consequences.

But as it is the human nature, even I am, on occasion, susceptible to hoping against hope, and guilty of twisting the facts as they suit my personal wishes. During my prolonged vigil at the hospital bed, I am not ashamed to confess, all other thought was banned from my mind, save the one: My good friend and colleague Watson had to be well, and awake at any moment.

I could not bear to think of any other eventuality. It was quite unacceptable that we should be separated again by something so trivial so soon after my return to London, and, in progress, to life.

Watson had been overwhelmed with joy after he had overcome his original chagrin over the fact that I had not informed him of my survival. In the subsequent weeks, we shied away from work and spent our time enjoying each other's company in various of our favourite pastimes.

Mycroft has remarked that my alleged death has made me 'less unsociable' and maybe he is indeed correct, for I enjoyed those days spent in amiable company just as much as my dear Watson.

While the signs of grief were hard to overlook in the first days, barely a week had rendered him into the same joyous and friendly man I had known, with an even more pronounced sense of humour than I remembered.

To see him so very still and deathly pale in the white sheets of the hospital bed was a harsh contrast to say the least. At first, I was relieved that he had fallen unconscious, for it spared him the pain of his injury, but as the days progressed, I was increasingly disquieted by his stillness.

The doctors who tended to my friend assured me that after such a trauma to the head, a longer period of unconsciousness was to be expected, and affirmed my own assessment that the original wound was healing up nicely.

I can but assume that it was my own joy to see Watson finally awake that allured me into believing that everything was fine and caused me to overlook the initial signs.

“Watson, are you truly awake?”

He blinked up at me with confused and bleary eyes, as it was only natural after so long a period of unconsciousness. “Holmes? What happened? Where am I?”

I clasped his hand tightly while I reached for a glass of water on the sidetable. “You had the misfortune to be hit by a cab out of control – or rather, I pulled you out of harm's way, which caused you to stumble and hit you head on the nearest lamppost. I'm really very sorry, my dear Watson, and so very relieved to see you awake.”

Watson reached up to touch the light bandage that was still wrapped around his head. “How bad is it?”

“Not at all, not any more. It has healed nicely, my dear fellow, and if your doctors have no objections, we shall travel back to Baker Street in just a few moments.”

I left his bedside for barely a minute to inform the doctors of my decision – there was no way I would allow Watson to remain in hospital a minute longer. I have heard fearful tales of said places, and have investigated more than one gruesome murder which had been committed in the whitewashed walls of such an institution. I was not in the position to criticise this particular hospital, but I was certain that we would both feel the better for our familiar surroundings at Baker Street. That set aside, I was certain that our good landlady was quite worried out of her mind. I may have been remiss in not sending her word for several days, but truth be told, I had barely slept at all and felt that it was taking its toll.

To my relief, no lengthy argument was necessary. The doctors were happy to be rid of a recovered patient and have space for a someone else. As usual, I would leave it to Mycroft to handle this kind of financial affair, and see to it personally that Watson arrived safely at home.

He could walk quite amiably, even though his balance was still a little impaired. With his arm linked in mine, we walked out of the hospital and towards the waiting cab. All the while, Watson had been very silent and looked about him with something akin to confusion, but I attributed it to the fact that he was still rather dazed.

“I'm sorry for rushing you like this, Watson. I promise we will take our time once we are home.”

He smiled tentatively up at me. “So this is where we are going. You could have told me, Holmes! My head still hurts...”

Maybe I should have paid more heed to the first part of his statement, but my mind, curious as it is, focussed only on the second. “You need rest, of course. Mrs Hudson will see to all you needs once we are back. And I promise solemnly I won't bother you with any musical cacophony.”

He chuckled, and the sound warmed my heart. It was almost as if the accident had never happened. “A little sleep would be what I appreciated most at the moment.”

“Then sleep is what you shall get.”

Once back in Baker Street, I accompanied Watson into the sitting room, where he settled down on the sofa, before I went to inform Mrs Hudson of all necessary facts. The good woman instantly tried to fuss over Watson, but I asked her merely to bring something light for dinner and leave the man to his peace. Maybe it was because, in the back of my mind, I had already realised that not all was well, even though my consciousness refused to recognise that fact.

As it was, I spent a relaxing evening reading for once, while Watson drowsed on the sofa. I left him to his sleep when I retired for the night, unwilling to disturb his much needed rest.

However, it was still in the middle of the night when a sound in the sitting room awoke me. I have always been a light sleeper, and those years of travel have sharpened that particular trait of mine. It had been essential to be always on my guard during my flight from Moriarty's remaining henchmen, and such a skill is not easily shed.

However, in the familiar surroundings of my own home, I must admit to being somewhat drowsy as I entered the sitting room, illuminated by a single candle on the coffee table by the sofa. Watson said there, upright and wide awake, the small box of matches which he had used to light the candle still clutched in his hands.

“Watson? Are you all right? Do you require me to fetch you anything?”

Watson continued to stare at his trembling hands for a further five seconds before he lifted his head to look at me. “Holmes?”

“Yes, of course.” I crossed the small space between us in order to allow him to see me fully. Squinting against the light of the candle, he had probably only been able to see the outline of a figure in the doorway. “I'm sorry, Watson. I should not have retired. But you were sleeping, and I failed to deduce that you might still be confused.”

He slowly shook his head. “I'm sure you have nothing to apologize for.”

I could not agree with him on that point – after all, it had been my actions which caused his injury – but I had no wish to interrupt him as long as he was so clearly upset.

“The extent of head injuries is hard to estimate, old chap. Never mind – I did not want to wake you, Holmes. We are at Baker Street, of course. I assume I have dreamed.”

He seemed to notice my frown, for he was quick to smile and reassure me that he was feeling all right and that he would retire to his own room now, leaving me to my sleep.

For the moment, I was willing to believe his words, and returned to my bed, but a strange feeling had settled in the pit of my stomach – intuition, as it usually presented itself to me. I would be watching my fellow lodger very closely.

In the morning, I rose to find Watson already in the sitting room. He was hunched over his writing table, wearing his most comfortable dressing gown, and scribbling furiously in one of his small notebooks.

He had removed his bandage and replaced it by a small patch of fabric over the red and blue area on his forehead, only just sufficient to keep away the dirt from the not fully healed gash. I was uncertain whether this course of action was wise, but Watson was the doctor, after all.

Carefully, as to not startle him, I approached and cleared my throat.

Watson finished his sentence, or whatever he had been writing, and flipped the book shut. “Holmes.”

“Good morning. You look better.”

“A slight headache is all.” He took up his notebook and pen again and turned halfway around in his chair to face me. “I'm sorry to have breakfasted without you.”

“Never mind,” I replied, somewhat distracted from his actual words by the strange tone in his voice. Watson could be many things, and I have remarked once or twice that I would never know his limits, but I had hardly ever heard him speaking with such an iron self-control resonating in his voice, save when he tried to control his temper, which clearly wasn't the case at present. Maybe all those signs should have been warning enough for me, and indeed, in retrospect, I cannot imagine how it was possible that I failed to deduce the truth. Even so, I had the impression later on that Watson, for himself, had already realised that something was amiss.

“You really should eat a bite, Holmes. You look like you have been starving yourself again.”

He was not entirely wrong in that observation. I had, indeed, only a dim recollection of eating something, but I was fairly certain that said meal had been the sandwich Mrs Hudson had intruded upon me when I had last stopped at Baker Street three days ago. “I shall be happy to devour this most excellent breakfast, Watson, never fear. Will you join me at the table?”

“Certainly.” He brought his notebook and a pen along with him, and placed both of them on the edge of the table.

“Did your muse strike again, Watson?”

For a moment, as he met my gaze, I was aware of the harrowing confusion ruling behind the strong façade he had willed over his hazel eyes. But then, every feeling disappeared in those hazel depth, and I was facing a harsh stare as I had seldom seen it in my companion. “Ah, no... I was just scribbling down some random notes. Would you mind telling me what happened? I seem to be unable to recall the exact sequence of events.”

Avoiding his strange gaze, I busied myself with my tea. I had no particular wish to talk about the events that had led to Watson's injury again, for they were all too clearly engraved in my mind. Maybe it was unnecessary and indeed foolish to blame myself for the consequences. Had I not acted, Watson would certainly have been injured far more gravely, but I could not help feeling responsible. It was just possible that this was another proof of Mycroft's judgement – I had certainly become more susceptible to human feelings during my years of absence. “There's not much to tell, really, Watson.”

“You mustn't feel guilty, Holmes.”

“I'm not. Well, what is the last thing you remember?”

“We were out for dinner, and just going home again. We were... conversing about the fact that the chef of the restaurant was clearly cheating on his wife with the waitress.”

“Amiable, Watson. We were, indeed, on our way back to Baker Street when a cab careened aroung the corner of Tottenham Court Road into Mortimer Street. The coachman had abandoned it as the horse went wild and it was quite out of control. We were in the progress of crossing the road, and if I hadn't pulled you back, you would certainly have been run over by the cab. Unfortunately, as I pulled you back, you lost your balance and collapsed against a lamppost. That's how you acquire the gash on you forehead. It was bleeding quite severely, and I therefore decided to take you to a hospital. You were unconscious by the time we arrived there, and remained in that state for five days.”

“And after I awoke, we returned to Baker Street, since the wound seems to heal nicely.”

“As you have had occasion to observe for yourself when you changed that bandage, yes.”

“I see.” Watson picked up the notebook, flipped it open and started to scribble again.

By now, I was certain that he was far from all right, but I still failed to deduce the obvious. It may be said in my defence that it was quite an unusual case.

I had scarcely finished breakfast when Mrs Hudson entered, carrying a telegram. “A telegram has just been delivered for you, Mr Holmes. The boy did not wait for a reply.”

While I opened the missive, she exchanged some cordialities with Watson, who did not stop writing all the while. When I looked up again, Mrs Hudson was bearing the same look of bemusement that had threatened to overtake my own features.

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” I said, and pressed the breakfast tray into her arms while guiding her to the door.

“Is the doctor fine?” she asked in a hushed voice.

“I'm sure it is merely the stress, Mrs Hudson. Don't you worry yourself.”

But when I had shut the door behind her, Watson was still furiously scribbling, this time with the telegram balanced on his knees. There was only one possible conclusion: He was copying the missive. “My dear Watson, I don't even know if the case is going to be an interesting one. Besides, I am more than happy to let you keep the telegram for your notes.”

He flushed and snapped the book shut as if I had caught him in some forbidden act. “Of course. Well, will you see Mr Greenstone?”

“If you have no objections, I will. Even if the case doesn't seem particularly interesting, this Mr Greenstone seems to be an extraordinary personality. Note how he demands to see me, rather than asking for an appointment. His name suggest no royalty, I can therefore safely deduce that he is some pompous, rich businessman.”

“Holmes!”

I smirked at Watson's mock outrage, for a moment forgetting all worries. Truth be told, I was more than happy to pretend everything was fine as long as Watson did the same. Still, I never quite managed to ban the strange expression of his eyes from my mind. Also, I had become obsessed with the idea of learning what he had scribbled into that notebook.

During the entire interview with Mr Greenstone, who, indeed, was a businessman, a tobacconist who was under the impression of being persecuted by misfortune, I hovered behind Watson. However, he never jotted down anything of further interest than his usual case notes.

As for the case, it was not without interest, but still I could give Mr Greenstone several important leads without leaving my armchair, and quickly dismissed the man with the order to return to me should any new developments arise.

As soon as Greenstone was gone, Watson closed his notebook and with a sigh, moved over to the sofa. “I'm very sorry, Holmes, but I feel confoundedly tired.”

“Take a nap, by all means, Watson! I shall find something quiet to do.”

He was asleep in a matter of minutes, his chest lifting slowly with each intake of breath. As silently as it was humanly possible, I rose from my armchair to fetch the notebook which lay on the writing table, and opened the last page. It was completely covered with casenotes, therefore I flipped the page, and read what Watson had scribbled in less than his steady hand in which he penned down the notes for his accounts.

'Remember' was scrolled in capital letters on the top of the page, and underlined twice.

_ REMEMBER _   
_~~~~~~~~~~_

head injury, minor gash on forehead, healed nicely, estimate: a week since the original injury

Day #1:

8:00

I can't recall how I came back to Baker Street, nor a stay at the hospital. H would not leave my side if this was my first day home.

Breakfast: scrambled eggs and tea

Mrs Hudson looks worried. Tells me to see to it that H takes care of himself.

~~~~~~~~

8:15 I can't remember any of the above.

~~~~~~~~

How I came by my injury:

\- uncontrolled cab

\- Holmes pulls me back

\- fall against lamppost

\- bleeding causes H to take me to the hospital

H has not eaten or slept properly for at least 5 days; inference: said time progressed since my injury – confirmed

\- long period of unconsciousness

\- back at Baker Street for less than two days

  
H notices nothing.

~~~~~~~~

Telegram announces client. Mr Greenstone. H deduces he is a rich businessman.

Then followed the exact copy of the telegram, as I had correctly deduced. I assumed he had added the line over my deductions later, after he had already copied the missive.

Needless to say, I was shocked. Watson had noticed what was amiss even though he failed to remember the words shortly after he had written them – but Watson had come to rely so thoroughly on his notes that it had to be natural to him to consult them in frequent intervals. I assumed that was partly a reason why he had managed the feat of appearing normal even though he was far from it.

Secondly, I could not help but marvel at his extraordinary ability to read the emotions and feelings of the people around him. He knew me decidedly well, and had used all his knowledge to deduce what he had forgotten. I would be certain not to mock his abilities of inference in the near future.

How terrifying the facts now obvious to me were, one thing was also quite clear: Watson's long term memory was not affected. He recalled all events and identities up to the point of his injury. However, his mind seemed to be unable to fix any new impressions in his memory. When he had taken up the notebook in the morning, he had already forgotten our nightly encounter. I was also certain that in the night, he had not been able to recall when he had come to Baker Street.

From his notes I gathered that he was willing to try managing without aid, probably in the hope that this strange affliction would pass in time.

My fear, however, was that this would never be the case. It would be ironic indeed that my clumsy attempt at saving his life should have ruined him in such a fashion. I was certain that he would have forgotten to have scribbled down his notes once he awoke. Moreover, as days progressed, he would have to read more and more information if he continued this journal, and I knew better than any man that there was a limit to what man is able to remember. The strain would grow upon him, and eventually, even Watson would give in.

I had no wish whatsoever to see my friend reduced to a confused and broken man, depending entirely on the aid and memory of others. What a terror indeed to wake each morning without remembering having gone to bed, or any occurrence at all of the previous day. To Watson, the time had frozen – each day, the moments right before his accident would be the last to come to his mind, and as the wounds healed, he would not even remember the accident. While everything moved on around him, he was suspended, trapped by his own inability to recollect.

Even if he managed nicely with his notes and excellent judgement of human nature, I could not possibly take him on any of my more dangerous cases. But then again, I had grown accustomed to his presence in the most dire situations. Should I be injured now, even under his very eyes, it would only take approximately a quarter of an hour until he had no more knowledge of it. There was no possible way he could tend me, or save my life, as he so often had in the past.

But I must not be selfish in such a situation. It was unacceptable that Watson's condition should be permanent, and if I could do anything about it, this ailment would not trouble my friend for much longer.


	2. Part 2

It was no easy decision to wake Watson.

In the depth of my mind, however, I knew that it was the only possible course of action. I had to ascertain the gravity of this amnesia if I was to discover a ways to put an end to it.

However – and each reader of this small memoir will agree that it was a very selfish thought – I wished I could be spared the look of utter confusion on Watson's features that disquieted me even more now that I knew its source.

With all due consideration for his still healing wound and the disorientation he was sure to suffer, I shook Watson by the shoulder. “Watson, my dear fellow, I need to have a word.”

He tried to bat my hands away. “Leave me be, Holmes. I have a headache.”

I suppressed a wince that wouldn't have help any of us. “I know, my friend. I'm afraid it is quite urgent.”

He blinked at me, growing more awake. “What is it? A fire?”

“No such thing, I'm afraid.”

“Are you hurt? You look unwell.”

Good old Watson. His thoughts were first with the people around him before he took ever care of himself. An admirable quality in a doctor, to be sure, but less useful for my purposes. As long as Watson was distracted, he would fail to notice what was amiss with him. “It's nothing, Watson. It's you I'm worried about.”

He chuckled. “I assume I had rather more wine last night than I imagined... You really should have accompanied me to my bedroom, other than allowing me to sleep on the sofa.”

It was as I had suspected – any recollection of the events after his injury was erased from his mind as assuredly as if they had never occurred at all. “My dear friend, you decided to take a nap on this sofa only just ten minutes ago.”

He frowned. “Surely not. I would certainly remember... Holmes, what's wrong?”

I placed the notebook in his hands. “Here. See for yourself.”

As Watson's eyes darted over his own scribbled words, his face blanched to the very same unnatural hue I had associated with his unconsciousness. When he handed the small booklet back to me, his hands shook. “I see. It's amnesia, then.”

“That much I have deduced. What can be done about it?”

“There is no treatment, Holmes. One can only hope that it is a temporary affliction. Lost memories can be reawakened, but in this case... I seem to be unable to form new memories, and I have no idea how we could support that process.”

“There has to be something we can do!” I left his side to pace up and down rather furiously.

Watson, in turn, picked up a pen again. “I shall write down what we have discussed – maybe the repetition will serve to anchor the memory in my mind.”

“It has not worked before.”

His pen froze in mid-motion. “I know. Holmes, you do realise that in a few moments I will be unable to recollect the subject of our conversation, much less the fact that I suffer from amnesia.”

“My dear fellow...”

“No, listen to me while I am still in possession of all the facts! If this condition should persist, I want you to stop consulting any physicians. I know this will seem like resignation to you, but I have no desire to be committed to an asylum.”

“Watson!”

“Good heavens, Holmes, must you scream so? My hearing functions perfectly, and I have a persistent headache.”

I cocked my head to the side to regard him closely over the backrest of the sofa on which he was still seated. “Watson?” This time, my voice barely rose above a whisper, but there was really nothing I could do about it. The terror of the thing had quite disturbed my orderly reasoning. “Do you recall what we just talked about?”

“Of course I do recall...” His sudden silence, however, effectively proofed him wrong. “Holmes, what is happening? I seem to be missing a part of my memory. You have not been testing any chemicals on me, have you?”

“Whyever would you think such a thing!” I was swiftly by his side, quite unable to meet his confused gaze. “In short, Watson, a head injury caused a peculiar case of amnesia. You are no longer able to form new memories.”

“That means I will be unable to remember this in a few moments?”

“Yes.”

“Holmes...” He grasped my hand in search for something to hold onto as panic flashed over his features. “Holmes, how often have you repeated this to me already?”

“Only this once.”

“But I couldn't tell, could I? This will be novel to me every time.”

“I suppose so,” I agreed, reluctantly. This was not what I had hoped for. I had hoped for a quick solution, a drug or some other method that worked fast and infallible.

“Then don't tell me next time. I will be confused, but I won't be frightened.”

“Watson...”

“Promise me.”

How could I possibly refuse when I already knew that it would be quite impossible to inform Watson of his predicament every quarter of an hour? It was therefore that I cast down my gaze in a curt nod. “Upon my word, Watson.”

He smiled wryly. “Thank you. Now, what do you intend to do about this case of Mr...” He consulted his notebook. “Mr Greenstone?”

“I have no intention of accepting it.”

“Whyever not?”

My head snapped up and I scrutinized Watson closely, trying to tell whether he had already forgotten again that he was terribly, horribly ill. But for once, Watson's usually so open countenance was a sealed book, even for myself. This couldn't possibly go on any longer, or it would assuredly drive us both to madness.

In my younger days, I would doubtlessly have turned to my brother for aid, but it was quite evident to me now that Mycroft had little knowledge of such matters. It was advisable, therefore, that I resorted upon my own knowledge and the vast variety of information to be found in the nearest public library. If Watson, who usually held a very high regard for his fellow medicos, thought it unwise to contact any of them, I would most assuredly not do so.

“Holmes? I am terribly sorry to interrupt your thoughts, my dear fellow, but don't you think you should inform Greenstone that you are indeed accepting his case if it already occupies you so?”

“You are quite right, Watson. I shall send a telegram immediately.”

His eyes followed my every movement as I slowly sat at the writing table to pen down what was in truth a message to my associate in the nearest library. He was well-versed upon many a subject, and would be able to point out some books on the subject of amnesia.

It was only when I had finished that it occurred to me that it was more than unwise to leave Watson to himself in his current condition. I could easily have informed Mrs Hudson of the circumstances, and indeed the good woman would have been more than happy to stay with Watson for the time of my absence, but I had no desire of troubling her further.

My return from the death had been a terrible shock to her, and even though she managed to conceal it well, her health was still quite shaken by the fit of hysterics I had subjected her to. Moreover, she had become more caring than ever before my three years of absence, and would be unduly worried if I informed her fully.

Thus, there remained only one course of action. “Watson?”

“Hm?”

“I'm going to the library. Would you care to accompany me?”

“Certainly. Is it something to do with the case?”

“In a way,” I answered wearily. It was indeed quite tiresome to be forced to lie constantly, but what choice did I have if I wasn't to reveal Watson's condition to himself? I may have deceived him in the past, but I have never broken a solemn promise to him.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Watson rose from the sofa and headed for the door, where, upon a sidetable, sat his head and cane.

“Watson, wait just a moment, old fellow!”

“What is it?”

“Don't you think you should get dressed first?”

Startled, he looked down at himself, and a shaky smile appeared on his lips. “Yes, of course. I'll be right back.”

I, however, had no intention of leaving his side, not even for a minute. It was more than likely that he would forget what he had planned to do as soon as he had arrived in his room, or even while he was still mounting on the staircase. Without further explanation, I collected my own coat and hat, and followed him into the hallway, where he was already in the progress of climbing the stairs.

He regarded me strangely as I reached his side, taking two steps at the time. Truth be told, such behaviour was odd, even for myself. “Don't you think I am quite able to manage on my own, old fellow? This headache is troublesome, but I am sure your presence is not necessary.”

“Watson.”

“Are you going to hover at my side all the day? Holmes, I know you worried, but I assure you, I will manage.”

“Do you remember what is wrong?” I asked, equally startled and hopeful.

“No, my friend, I don't remember. But I gather that this is the source of the problem. Now, if you'd please stop avoiding the subject...”

“You asked me to.”

“I did?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I suppose I was confused. It is quite... disturbing.”

We had reached the second floor by that time, and Watson closed his hand around the doorknob to his room.

“Now, don't look so worried, Holmes! There are certain techniques to help the memory, and I'm sure I will get along nicely with the help of my notebook.”

“If you say so, Watson.” I must confess, I wished dearly that his words had hit upon the truth, however, his certainty could not dissolve the doubts in my mind.

“We shall have to establish a regular daily schedule, of course. And we have to inform Mrs Hudson – you haven't done so already, have you?”

“No.”

Watson nodded and stared at his hand still clutching the doorknob. “Tell me again, Holmes. What was I doing?”

During the following days, we worked out a daily routine which suited us both. It was a painstaking process, and once or twice I had the impression that for Watson, it was just as taxing as for myself, even though he could not recall the difficulties after a short time. He had, however, managed to remember what was the predicament he suffered from, thus making my task a little easier.

For a week, we inevitably went to the public library at one o'clock, after we had dined precisely at noon.

Mrs Hudson had taken the news amiably, and I had the slight suspicion that it was quite a relief for the woman to be certain that we would be there in time for the meals while my previous erratic schedule had prohibited that more than once. In fact, Watson's condition also made it quite impossible to embark upon a more dangerous quest, which was only beneficial for our landlady's much tried nerves, if not for my own.

However, my research at the library did reveal little further information. It appeared there was no treatment to be suggested, and in truth, Watson was proven right. The unfortunate persons suffering from his affliction more often than not ended up in an asylum for the insane.

At five o'clock precisely we would return to Baker Street and spend the remaining hour with certain pastimes. Watson had taken up passing that hour deeply engaged in a game of repetition, where he would take up his notebook and tried to study the events of the day as to anchor them in his memory. His success, so far, had been sadly limited.

Upon Watson's insistence, I had agreed to look into Mr Greenstone's case, and the spare hour was dedicated to that task. It may be true that my deplorable handling of the case caused it to last for a longer time than was strictly necessary, but I am sure every reader will agree that I can hardly be blamed for being somewhat distracted.

“Time to wind you watch, Watson.”

He stopped his low murmuring, which was supposed to help him recall the learned facts, and dug the watch out of his pocket with a sigh. “Of course.”

My infallible memory and mind where quite an aid in our daily life, for they allowed me to pinpoint the exact moments of my reminders to Watson without spending considerable energy on the task.

“Holmes, if this continues infinitely...”

“It won't.”

“Oh, do stop it! You know as well as I do that this repetitions do little good!”

“What were you going to say, Watson?”

“If this continues, I do not want you to give up your own work for my sake. I know you pretend to use the hour in which I repeat my notes for considering the case. But I know you well enough by now to be able to tell that you are not really working. There is no trace of the spark in your eyes when you are on a case, or of that introspective expression when you reflect on the facts.”

“I worry, Watson! Would you rather like me to be a machine, an unfeeling automaton as you have once described me?”

He blushed and cast down his gaze. “No, of course not. I am sorry, Holmes.”

“There is no need to apologize. Mrs Hudson will be up with dinner in five minutes.”

Watson glanced at his watch, then at the list we had deposited on the coffee table. “Yes, I see. Holmes – I want you to promise me you won't ruin who you are for my sake. I'm sure I couldn't bear it if you ceased to be who you are – who I remember you are.”

I had no wish nor energy to debate this point further with Watson. It was quite evident that this was a discussion I had already lost, and even though he was certain to have forgotten my promise shortly, he must have known that it would be binding for me nevertheless.

“Please, Holmes. It is little enough to promise.”

“You weren't so glad about the last promise I made.”

“But I'm firm on this point. I see how the inaction bothers you. You chaff against the regulations and the firm schedule I am forced to keep. Don't deny it. You know it's true. Now, tomorrow I want you to meet Mr Greenstone, and become involved in his problem, even if it takes you from Baker Street. I am sure that with my notes and Mrs Hudson's aid, I will easily pass the hours.” And Watson scribbled his wish down in the small booklet he carried around with him at all hours, in order to be able to remind me of it in the morning.

It was therefore that for the first time in almost two weeks I left Watson's side. I had agreed to meet Mr Greenstone in his villa on the outskirts of London where our city merged with the beautiful countryside surrounding it.

It seemed indeed that the case which he had brought to my intention was more complex than I had initially assumed, or allowed myself to assume.

My investigation subsequently caused me to visit several tobacco stores and Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard before I returned to Baker Street in time for dinner. I will spare the reader the details of my investigation, since they are hardly the subject of this memoir, but I have to confess that the work had had a beneficial effect on my frame of mind.

I was tired, certainly, but also much relaxed, and my racing thoughts had returned to a more reasonable pace. I was also confident that I had been able to set Mr Greenstone's mind at ease concerning his problem, and would be able to solve it in the next few days, if no new evidence presented itself.

“I see your investigations went well?” Watson greeted me with an exuberant smile the likes of which I had not seen since his accident.

“Decidedly so.” I settled into my armchair, lighting my pipe. Dinner would be up in five minutes, which was more than enough time. “I really have to thank you, Watson.”

He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “What for?”

“For suggesting I should investigate this case. You don't remember?”

“Only that you were on an investigation. See?” He held up his notebook and pointed at the line scribbled on top of the page.

H is on a case.

“Ah.”

“Now, don't look so disappointed, Holmes. I believe I have actually been improving.”

“Indeed? How so?”

He cleared his throat. “Well, I do know now that I have been in the hospital for five days after my accident. And I have not looked it up. I know it's not much.” He slowly closed the notebook and pocketed it. “I beg of you, tell me of the case.”

“During dinner, if you so wish.”

It was quite a relief for both of us to engage in such a familiar activity. Watson, as always, was a very attentive listener, and his condition hardly made itself presentable during the course of our conversation. Of course he could not recall meeting Mr Greenstone, but that was quite beside the point. We felt both much better for the familiarity, and it was indeed for the first time in many weeks that Watson retired without hesitation.

He had always threaded the mornings, when he would awake without recollection of where he was, or when he had gone to bed. It was then that his confusion was the most pronounced, and only after he had taken up his notebook to revise the notes of the past days he would be somewhat calmed.

The next day, however, he had risen before I had, and woke me by knocking at my bedroom door.

I instantly suspected something was wrong, since he had kept strictly to his schedule before, but he seemed perfectly fine when I opened the door.

More so, he was already fully dressed, and holding his hat and cane in his hands.

“Watson?”

“I'd like to accompany you on the case.”

Needless to say, I did not consider this to be a very good idea. Even if he could learn the particulars from his notes, which were no doubt the reason why he knew of the case at all, I feared that being in unfamiliar surroundings would only confuse him, should he forget what we were doing. “Are you sure you can manage?”

“Yes. I need the stimulant as much as you do, Holmes. I believe I shall go mad if I am given nothing to do.”

“I see. Give me just a moment to get dressed.” When I returned to the sitting room, Watson had deposited his cane and hat on his armchair and stared at his pocket-watch and the schedule in puzzlement.

“Holmes? Why am I awake when breakfast is not due for another hour?”

“You proposed to accompany me on my investigations.”

“Oh.” He picked up his head and cane again with a devastated expression. “Well, let's go, then.”

“Watson, you don't have to do this. If you would rather stay at home, I could fully understand it.”

“No, let's go.”

Before we left, I naturally informed Mrs Hudson of our quest; however, I could not tell her exactly where we were going. I had a few more shops to visit, and I would probably have to interview Lestrade again, but as it is with such things, the investigation could easily take us anywhere in London and beyond.

We had not yet ventured a few blocks from our home when Watson froze in his step and grasped my arm. “Holmes!”

“What is it? Are you all right?”

“It was here, wasn't it? The accident? It was right here.”

“Yes, you are quite correct, my dear fellow! Do you remember it?”

“Not precisely, now. It's more of a feeling. And I am afraid it doesn't aid us much in my current predicament. What use is it to me to remember what has been when I have already forgotten again where we are going at the moment?”

“To the tobacconist around the corner,” I said absent-mindedly. I had read, of course, that past memories could be triggered, but Watson was quite correct. His condition was the rarer, and certainly the more difficult to resolve. As much as I despised to admit it, I had no idea how much longer my patience would last – or his. “Let's take a cab and see Lestrade first.”

“Of course.”

It should be said here that Inspector Lestrade's office is situated on the second floor of the illustrious building that houses New Scotland Yard. While it is not very often that I, or both of us, visit the inspector rather than he us, we both knew well the way which led to his small room. During the course of my career, I have become rather well known with the Yard, and we were therefore spared any curious stares.

It was a benefit, too, that Watson had not lost his memory entirely. His knowledge of the past years enabled him to follow my rapid pace with confidence, even if he might have forgotten why we were going to Lestrade.

As it was, we never quite reached the inspector's office. Out of nowhere, a door opened directly in my path, and although I pride myself of having lightning-speed reflexes, I failed to avoid contact.

Suddenly, I found myself on the ground, both my right foot and my nose hurting from where I had collided with the door. Watson was kneeling at my side, his face twisted with worry, and soon he was joined by Inspector Bradstreet, who was responsible for the opening of the door.

“Oh, I'm terribly sorry, Mr Holmes. I didn't see you!”

“A stunning observation, Bradstreet. Amazingly stunning, indeed.” I rose to my feet, wincing as my much tried toes brushed the front of my boots.

Watson offered me a handkerchief. “You nose is bleeding.”

“I'm not surprised.”

“I do apologize, I couldn't possibly have known you would pass the door in exact that moment.”

“Bradstreet, if you repeat those ridiculous apologies...”

“Holmes, can you stand?” Watson interrupted, taking my arm. “Your foot was rather in the way of the door, was it not?” he added, with a smirk.

“I can manage. We should go and see Lestrade.” It may be that I dismissed his worries rather harshly, but these small injuries were only a minor annoyance of the problem we were facing.

The rest of our daily investigations passed without further interesting occurrence, and indeed I only mention this small encounter because it has a bearing upon future happenings. Watson handled the strain on his capacities of acting and reasoning remarkably well, and it was with some pride that I observed how he masked his affliction with the aid of his excellent knowledge of the human emotions and mind.

Mrs Hudson greeted us on the doorstep, balancing a tray of food on her free hand. “Dinner is ready, gentlemen.”

“Mrs Hudson, you are truly invaluable,” Watson said with a smile. He seemed to feel the better for our activities, even though I had my doubts as to how much he did, in fact, recall. He had scribbled in his notebook throughout the day, but so far I had been able to tell, he had capture nothing more than his usual casenotes.

I was already on the staircase when Mrs Hudson decided to address me, after she had forced the tray upon Watson to take his hat and coat in turn. “I observe you are limping, Mr Holmes. Did something occur I should know about?”

“Nothing at all, Mrs Hudson. I am quite all right.”

Watson, however, smirked, and said with a slight giggle as he handed back the tray: “Mr Holmes bumped into a door.”

Mrs Hudson was first to stare at the doctor in amazement, then I was back downstairs in a second as the implication of his words had penetrated my vexation and somewhat hurt pride.

“Watson, what did you say?”

His smile broadened. “I know you have heard me just fine. I would rather not repeat it, old fellow.”

“For which I am immensely indebted to you,” I replied with a smile. “You do remember, don't you?”

“As clear as day.”

“Why, Dr Watson, this is wonderful! I shall take up dinner, and then we will open up a bottle of the finest champagne to celebrate the occasion.” Mrs Hudson bustled off, leaving us to ourselves.

“Well, I am certainly relieved that it was not permanent,” Watson remarked wryly.

“So am I, my dear chap, so am I. However, I would have preferred a less embarrassing occurrence to be the key to you recovery!"


End file.
